


through the glimmering light

by 100demons



Category: Marvel (Movies)
Genre: Drinking, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, M/M, Minor Violence, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 17:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100demons/pseuds/100demons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce disappears and all of Darcy's world comes crashing down. It's only at the end, that the story can be told.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They’d all laughed of course and set up bets on when and who Darcy Lewis would abandon her latest flavor of the week for. Some had raised eyebrows at his age; others at his gender (Mark had calculated that she dated women to men at a 3 to 1.5 ratio). Still, the stakes grew higher and higher as the days went on and people noticed that flavor of the week turned into months, with the six month mark quickly approaching. Kevin, a previous flavor of the week, was a little peeved as he had bet fifty dollars on it lasting two hours.  
  
Perversely, Maria put in that maybe Darcy was leading them all on, faking her relationship in order to wreck the bookies. Sharon said they might as well bet on nothing at all, if she was going to think like that, so the game kept going as everyone waited for it to end. And when it did end, no one saw it coming.

* * *

  
  
They sent Natasha to tell her, as if they thought a woman’s touch would soften the blow of her words. Natasha let Steve take false comfort in illusions as she walked down the hallway, old floorboard covered in a ratty carpet creaking ominously underneath her weight. Her eyes flickered from doorway to doorway, checking the number plates briefly before coming to a stop on the door at the end of the corridor, a cheery welcome mat at her feet and a Christmas wreath hung in front of her face. She knocked.  
  
Natasha heard someone shuffling to the door and some muttered words before the deadbolt slid open.  
  
“Bruce, what took you so long! I figured you had to run in for some emergency but usually you...” Darcy’s face whitened. “...call,” she finished weakly and clutched the doorjamb with white fingers.  
  
“Darcy Lewis,” Natasha said softly and placed a gloved hand over Darcy’s, slowly prying them loose from the wooden frame. “Can I come inside?”  
  
Darcy’s eyes widened. “I-- yes, sorry, what am I thinking.” She moved from the door and stepped aside, fists clenched at her side. “I-- was--” Darcy gestured at the living room, where a haphazard display of clothes flung all over the couch met Natasha’s cool eyes. “Laundry, you see,” she said. “I was folding laundry.”  
  
The door shut with a grim finality.  
  
“It’s about Bruce,” Natasha said, looking around for somewhere to sit, but found only chairs stacked high with journals and couches draped with negligee. She settled for leaning against the fridge, decorated with colorful pictures drawn in crayon and letters from _Science_ and _Nature_ accepting Bruce’s papers for publication.  
  
“Of course it is,” Darcy forced out as she followed Natasha into the small kitchenette, arms crossed over her chest. “Did he break his leg again?” she asked, her voice rising. “Because no matter how many times I tell him that it’s stupid to run after robots thinking that he’s some kind of invincible--”  
  
“Darcy, please, you must listen to me,” Natasha said and reached out to the other woman, clasping her shoulder firmly. “Please.” This close she could see Darcy’s vein throbbing in her neck, the quick flare of her nostrils, the way sweat trickled down her throat and collected in the hollow of her clavicle.  
  
“Is he--”  
  
“He’s gone missing,” Natasha said.  
  
“M-missing? _Missing_?” Darcy barked out a quick nervous laugh. “Don’t be silly, how could he go missing. He’s big and green and angry all the time, people like him don’t go missing in the dead of the night, he’s so big, and no one could take him and-- and-- and--” Darcy gulped for air, her shoulders heaving.  
  
“Missing,” Natasha said quietly and felt every bruise, every punch that she failed to dodge tonight, and every breath is a struggle. “We were attacked by Doctor Doom and he had some kind of ray or-- some device and when he hit Bruce-- he-- he was gone.”  
  
“Gone,” Darcy repeated and then she fell to the floor, knees crumbling. “Oh God, oh god oh god ohgodohgodohggod--”  
  
Natasha held her as Darcy fell to pieces.

* * *

  
  
They brought her to the Tower on the pretext of security --“Doom brought that ray specifically to target Bruce, for all we know he could attack _her_ as well,” Tony had argued, habit lending his voice an aggressive tone, even though no one disagreed-- but when they saw her,  red-eyed, swaddled in emergency blankets and clutching Bruce’s shirt, they couldn’t help but feel a little relieved that some part of Bruce remained, in the form of Darcy Lewis.  
  
Steve led her to Bruce’s old room, still made up in the way he liked, with the lights dim and the sheets smelling of Downy. Stacks of old journals lined the floor and on top of the desk, some dirty clothes sticking out of the hamper in the corner.  
  
“We’d thought, well, if you’d like Miss Lewis, that you might stay here but if you don’t there’s certainly other--”  
  
Darcy raised a hand and smiled faintly. “Really, Steve. You’re still calling me Miss Lewis even after all these months? I thought we’d had an agreement.”  
  
Steve flushed a little. “Darcy,” he said quietly. “Of course.”  
  
“Better,” she said and peeled off her shoes and settled down on the edge of the bed. “You know, it-- it smells like him. The room, I mean,” she clarified at his look. “Like old paper and that disgusting aftershave he uses and that nut trail mix snack he eats whenever he thinks I’m not looking.” She stroked the bed next to her with a light hand. “He went out to get that trail mix last night,” she said. “He said-- he said--” Her voice hitched and Darcy pressed a fist against her mouth and bit down on it, making a choking sort of noise.  
  
He stood awkwardly by the door, caught between a retreat back to his own dark room where he could wrap himself in blankets and drink himself into a brief stupor and a charge forward to comfort Darcy. Steve did neither and simply stood, useless.  
  
Darcy soon quieted and then slumped over on the bed and curled up, her back to the door. “I’d like to be alone now,” she said dully, voice muffled by the blankets. “Please.”  
  
Steve left.

* * *

  
  
They’d met, of all places, at the park.  
  
“Juice,” Janie demanded, sticking her chubby fingers out.  
  
“Juice, what?” Darcy responded, uncowed by the pout Janie wielded with such frightening power.  
  
“Juice, please,” Janie sighed and wiggled her fingers.  
  
“Alright,” Darcy said fondly and handed the sip cup over, all the while trying to pat Janie’s rebellious hair into order. “I’ll be over there on the benches, next the fountain.” Janie sucked on her cup thoughtfully and looked over in the direction Darcy had pointed.  
  
“Kay,” she said and handed the cup over ceremoniously before scampering off to the sandbox, where she held court with the other three year olds in attendance. The minute she got back, Queen Janie promptly stomped on a sand castle an upstart had made while she took a juice break and waddled over to her throne, a misshaped hill made with more dirt than sand.  
  
“Ungrateful scamp,” Darcy muttered and hauled the bag of toys, juice, handkerchiefs and countless other tools to deal with tiny children capable of wailing at inhuman decibels. She settled onto a park bench with a sigh and fished out her phone, to prove to her sister that Darcy was, in fact, taking care of her niece with no problems, absolutely none, her middle name was responsibility and her sister could stop fretting that Darcy was going to kill her kid. As if she would murder her own flesh and blood. (That candy overdose thing was one time and an accident. She knew better than to let Janie near Skittles again.)  
  
“Your kid?” the man sitting on the bench next to her asked, lowering his newspaper and folding it in the proper way.  
  
“No, and thank God,” Darcy swore. “She’s my nie-- Dr. Banner!” Darcy made an abortive attempt to stand but Dr. Banner just waved at her absentmindedly as he took off his glasses and put them in a shirt pocket. “We’re not at work, Miss Lewis,” he said pleasantly and smiled.  
  
“Darcy,” she corrected automatically and gingerly wiped at a snot stain Janie had generously given the front of her shirt. “I’m only Miss Lewis to my landlady and that’s when my rent’s overdue.”  
  
“Darcy,” Dr. Banner tried out slowly, as if he was savoring the taste of her name. It sounded-- good in that voice of his. She wanted to hear him say it again. “Bruce Banner,” he said, gesturing at himself vaguely. “Just plain Bruce outside of the lab.”  
  
“So, _Bruce_ , what are you doing at a kiddie playground?” she asked teasingly.  
  
“Oh--” Bruce flushed and his cheeks turned a dark red underneath a good two days of growth. “I-- like it here,” he said quietly. “It’s peaceful.”  
  
Darcy raised a brow as two boys hurtled past them, screaming bloody murder at the top of their lungs. “Really,” she said dryly.  
  
He smiled. “It’s charming in its own way,” he said.  
  
“I guess,” Darcy hummed and kept an eye on Janie as she reigned dramatically over the sandbox and her snot-nosed subjects. “It is kind of nice,” she admitted, hearing kids laugh and scream and swing from the monkey bars. “I don’t usually get to see this kind of stuff and as awful as it can get, kids are-- kids are a kind of gift.”  
  
Darcy glanced over at Bruce and was startled to find a sad look in his eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line. “No kids of your own?” she ventured a little timidly, wary of the grief that lined his face.  
  
There was a long pause. “No,” he said in a low voice. “No children of my own.”  
  
“Oh,” Darcy said and the word fell from her lips and into the deep silence that sprang up between them, a pebble rippling in a dark pool.  
  
Darcy checked her phone, desperately trying to look cheerful and noted the late time. _Time for dinner and then--_ she looked up and her heart thudded as she met Bruce’s dark eyes. The words were out of her mouth before she knew it. “Would you like to have dinner with us?”  
  
Bruce blinked. “I’m sorry--”  
  
“It’s just going to be and Janie and some pizza, it’s nothing fancy and of course Janie’s a giant brat of a three year old so I understand if you don’t have to, I mean, if you don’t want to--”  
  
“I’d love to, Darcy,” Bruce said warmly and tucked his paper in the crook of his elbow.  
  
“Okay,” Darcy breathed out and tried to ignore the way her name sounded on his lips. “Okay.”

* * *

  
  
He liked his coffee sweet and creamy, putting nearly two creamers and four packets of sugar before he deigned to drink it.  
  
“Oh my god, that’s disgusting,” Darcy said in fascination as he idly stirred it with a plastic stick.  
  
“It’s not bitter,” Bruce said and wagged the stick at her, drops of coffee flying off the ends. “I don’t know how you manage to drink it black.”  
  
“It’s the only way to drink it,” Darcy boasted and to underscore her point, picked up her mug and took a long deep drink. She set it down with a dull thunk. “My Dad would probably also shoot me if I even so much as put a drop of milk in it anyway.”  
  
“Really?” Bruce asked, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a faint smile.  
  
In the back of her head, Darcy vaguely wished that he would really smile. It made him look-- less sad. Younger, maybe. “Yeah. Coffee was his adult thing. I had my very first mug when I was thirteen and we had it together for brunch every Sunday. Still do,” she admitted, “when we have the time.”  
  
“I picked it up in college,” Bruce mused idly as he leaned on his hand, looking out the window into some unseen world. “I was working on my senior thesis, I think, and I had so much to prove and so little time. Took one sip and almost spit it out, but my advisor convinced me to have it with milk and sugar.”  
  
Darcy wrinkled her nose. “Please, can we not talk about senior theses,” she begged. “Three years behind me and the pain is still fresh.”

“What did you do it on?”  
  
“Some political science thing or another,” Darcy muttered, looking down at her cup. “Nothing much.”  
  
“Come on, what was it?” he prodded gently.  
  
“It was the way new media --you know, Twitter, Facebook, blogging-- affected the presidential campaign. Pretty dumb,” Darcy flushed and sipped at her coffee to distract herself.  
  
“That sounds really interesting,” Bruce said keenly. “You know, if you don’t mind, I’d like a chance to read it someday.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Darcy said, leaning back into the booth and stretching her legs, “don’t hold your breath.”  
  
He gave her a look that meant he wasn’t going to let this drop but he changed the subject anyway. “How’s Janie, by the way?”  
  
Darcy leapt onto the new topic gratefully. “She’s good, learning her letters and everything. Oh, that reminds me!” Darcy hunted through her purse and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, smoothing it out on the table with gentle fingers.  
  
“She wanted me to give this to you, actually.” She turned the picture around so that Bruce could look at it properly, right side up. “It’s you, see?” Darcy pointed out proudly at a blobby purplish figure with enormous glasses and the letters B R O O S E painstakingly written below it, the S written backwards and plenty of hearts floating around the mini Broose blob.  
  
“Liz, my sister, she kept telling me how Janie wouldn’t shut up about you. It was all ‘Bruce this’ or ‘Bruce said that’ or ‘kwantim fisicks Mommy I wanna be a kwantim fisicks science-tist like Bruce’,” Darcy smiled, patting Bruce’s hand. “Charmed her with your Banner--” Darcy stopped uncertainly, looking at Bruce’s lowered face. “Are-- are you alright? Bruce?”  
  
He looked up at her, dark eyes glittering with unshed tears and Darcy’s heart fell, plunging down her chest and crashing into the pit of her stomach. “Oh, god, Bruce are you--”  
  
“Tell her-- tell her that-- thank you,” he said simply, the words thick with emotion. “It means-- more than I can say.”  
  
“Oh,” Darcy faltered, suddenly unsure on this uncharted ground. “Of course, she adores you, you know,” she added, unsure of the right thing to say. “She really does.”  
  
“I never-- I never thought that-- I would ever...” Bruce trailed off, struggling to form into words what Darcy saw clearly on his face.  
  
“It’s ok,” she said gently and reached out for his hand, wrapping her fingers around his and rubbing soft circles on the back of his hand with her thumb. “I know.”  
  
Bruce lapsed into silence as Darcy whispered softly, nonsense things mostly, about how much Janie loved him and how she’d named one of teddy bears Dr. Bruce and how she understood, it was alright, that it was going to _be_ alright. She didn’t even notice their hands were still clasped until Bruce placed his other hand on top of hers, his large and calloused hand dwarfing hers.  
  
“Thank you, Darcy,” he said and smiled, his eyes filled with something she couldn’t quite read.  
  
“KISS ME NOW, KISS-- KISS-- KISS ME NOWWWW,” her phone howled and Darcy started violently, jerking away from his grasp and scrambling awkwardly for her phone. She desperately hoped she wasn’t blushing but judging from the heat radiating off her face, she was probably the same color as a ripe tomato.  
  
“It’s-- it’s Kevin,” Darcy muttered quickly in apology as she answered the phone, her voice coming out higher than normal. “Hi? Um, Kevin?”  
  
“Hey babe,” he drawled, stretching out the second word. “Listen, Drake just found a dive with dollar beer last night, what do you say we hit the bar tonight in your sexy blue dress?”  
  
“I--” She risked a quick glance at Bruce but he was looking down at the picture Janie had drawn with an almost studious indifference. “I-- listen, right now isn’t exactly a good time but we can talk when I get--”  
  
“Don’t be like that,” Kevin sighed. “You know I can’t call until--”  
  
“Alright,” Darcy sighed and fished a five out of her pocket. She slipped her hand over the bottom of her phone and gave Bruce an apologetic look. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “but I have to take the call now.” She waved the crumpled bill at him. “This should cover the coffee and--”  
  
Bruce gave her a dry look. “Don’t even think about paying,” he warned her and made a shooing motion. “Go and take your call. We can talk later.”  
  
“Lunch? Tomorrow?” She asked hopefully, dimly aware of Kevin sighing into her palm, a rush of static in the wind.    
  
“Tomorrow,” Bruce promised.

* * *

  
“I’m not hungry.”  
  
Clint sighed and pressed his forehead against the door, the red light of the flashing ACCESS DENIED coloring his hair a dull orange. “You need to eat,” he said, trying his best to imitate the way Tasha ordered top level SHIELD agents to make her lattes. It failed miserably.  
  
“Go away.”  
  
“Not until you come out and eat something,” Clint urged.  
  
“No.”  
  
The cold metal felt deliciously cool on his skin. He’d been up for hours last night, combing through CCTV footage and then, after finding nothing, relieved Tasha from her post and stood quiet guard over Bruce’s-- no, Darcy’s door as the night filtered into day.  
  
“Please,” he tried, his voice cracking a little. “Just a little bit, only to keep your strength up. If-- when Bruce comes back and sees you all skinny-like, he won’t exactly be happy with me, you know. Probably try to hulk out and squish me for letting you starve yourself.”  
  
There was a long silence and Clint almost gave up before the door slid open silently, the sudden lack of support catching him by surprise. He’d nearly crashed into Darcy before his feet found their balance and he halted mere inches from her face.  
  
Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, her hair a tangled nest of brown curls and she wore Bruce’s old pajamas for all the fact they were too broad at the shoulder and too long at the leg. Despite all that, she look beautiful, for all the fact that grief hung about her like a heavy shroud that bowed her back and dulled her eyes.  
  
“Erm,” Clint said awkwardly and straightened, running a hand through his hair.  
  
“You said something about breakfast?” Darcy asked tiredly.  
  
“In the kitchen,” he said curtly and led the way, hyper aware of her soft shuffling steps at his back and the way she leaned on the wall for support. The quiet grew almost oppressive and Clint longed for a way to break it-- some kind of word or condolence or even a gesture that showed that he cared, that they all cared. But he could think of nothing and instead kept to himself, letting the silence stay unbroken.  
  
It seemed like an eternity before they reached the bustling kitchen, Steve standing guard by the stove, Thor deftly catching toast from the angry toaster (Clint suspected that anything Tony touched instantly gained fifty plasma guns and a temper to match Fury) while Tony and Tasha brooded over their cups of joe.  
  
Clint coughed importantly.  
  
Tony turned around from his seat and managed a twisted sort of grimace, which passed as a smile from him in the morning while Tasha just inclined her head.  
  
“Good morn to you,” Thor said quietly, which for him was practically a whisper, and Darcy gave him an equally quiet greeting back. Steve hovered over at the stove, holding a plate of eggs and sausages. “Good morning Miss-- Darcy, I mean,” he hastily recovered. “Eggs?”  
  
Darcy shook her head and took a seat beside Tasha, barely shifting it aside before she slid gingerly onto the seat, as if she were afraid that she would break a bone if she moved.  
  
“Toast,” Clint said brightly, swiftly grabbing the plate Thor held and plunking it down on the table. “Can’t go wrong with that!”  
  
“Indeed,” Thor rumbled beside him. “I have found that it makes for a most pleasant morning repast, my lady.”  
  
Darcy picked at the pile of toast in front of her half-heartedly.  
  
“You know,” Steve said casually as he pulled up a chair across from her and next to Tony, carefully setting down the fry up on the table. “I always liked toast with strawberry jam and--”  
  
“Are you sure he’s just missing?” Darcy asked, her dull voice instantly cutting through Steve’s anxious, frazzled chatter.  
  
For a long moment, no one breathed.  
  
“I-- yes,” Tony said. “Yes, I’m sure.”  
  
“He’s not-- dead or-- or vaporized or even-- are you _sure?_ ” Darcy asked in a hard, high-pitched voice, the edge of it keen with fright. “Are you sure he’s not dead, can you guarantee that with a hundred percent accuracy? Can you?”  
  
“No-- I mean, well-- yes,” Tony bit off, tendons jumping out in his arms as he clenched his hands. “I can’t guarantee it but judging by the particulate analysis--”  
  
“You don’t even know for sure?” Darcy asks, her voice growing shriller and shriller. “You don’t _know_ and yet you say-- you say he’s missing and you don’t even know for sure when he’s been hit by-- by some kind of death ray and you can’t even tell me for sure!” Two bright crimson spots stained her cheeks. “What were you all doing then, letting him get hit by that thing? Just because he’s stronger than you, doesn’t mean he’s-- he’s invincible or impossible to kill! He saves you all, day after day and no thanks, no he’s Bruce Banner, he just goes on because that’s the kind of man he is and you repay him by letting him get _killed_ \-- which, by the way you can’t even confirm!” Darcy’s chest heaved as she struggled for breath, fingers unknowingly tearing the toast in her hands to shreds.  
  
“You _killed_ him,” Darcy cried and then collapsed on top of the table, as if all the air had gone out of her, shoulders shaking as she cried.  
  
Tony looked down at his coffee, looking like someone had just shot him, face pale and eyes glazed over with shock. He looked like Clint felt, like Darcy had reached out and twisted the invisible knife in his ribs, the keen edge piercing even deeper inside of him.  
  
It was Thor who moved first, who placed a gentle hand on Darcy’s back and rubbed soothing circles as he whispered softly in Asgardian-- blessings or curses, for all Clint knew.  
  
“It will be alright,” Thor promised. “I swear, upon the honor of my hammer and the throne of my father, Odin, that I-- that we,” he amended looking about the room, “will bring Bruce home to you, my lady.” He gathered her up in his arms and let her scream into her chest, let her sob and punch and cry and kick at the world, at fate, at himself.  
  
“We’ll bring him home if it’s the last thing we do,” Natasha said, speaking up for the first time. She looked at Clint, her dark eyes keen and serious.  
  
“Avengers,” Steve said, voice ringing. “Assemble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow, my first Bruce/Darcy fic in MONTHS and I come up with this awful mess of sob story. 
> 
> title from the poem by Walt Whitman:
> 
> "As If a Phantom Caress'd Me" 
> 
> As if a phantom caress'd me,  
> I thought I was not alone walking here by the shore;  
> But the one I thought was with me as now I walk by the shore, the  
> one I loved that caress'd me,  
> As I lean and look through the glimmering light, that one has  
> utterly disappear'd.  
> And those appear that are hateful to me and mock me.


	2. Chapter 2

The icy cold shot burned in her throat as it sank into her stomach, all fire and biting winter chill with a faint hint of raspberry. Darcy raised the bottle critically and nearly slammed her nose against the bottle, the letters so close that it made her eyes go all cross-eyed. Or maybe that was the vodka in her, the swirling fog in her mind blanketing everything with a forgiving mist. Or maybe she needed another drink.  
  
She poured another generous amount in her glass ( _Irish L <3ver_), wiping away the overflow with the hem of her loose, flowy blue dress that she’d bought for the mixer Jane had thrown last month, gathering every absentminded and balding scientist she could find and shoving them into a room with copious amount of booze. Kevin had liked it, had helped unzip the back and gently pulled the straps off her shoulders, had looked at her like he’d-- he’d--  
  
Darcy knocked the second back straight down and welcomed the pain it brought.  
  
 _Fuck_ Kevin, she thought viciously and threw the shot glass at the wall, shattering into a thousand satisfactory pieces. Fuck him and everyone and everything and Dad most of all, the goddamn-- the-- fucking-- liar--

Darcy screamed and the heat inside of her grew hotter and hotter, boiling with rage. Fuck everything and Kevin and-- and-- she scrabbled around for something to throw, to break and smash and crush and hit, if only she could just--  
  
“Darcy? Darcy are you there? It’s-- it’s me-- Bruce. Are you alright? Can I... can I come in?”  
  
The sound of his voice shocked her into a stillness, a bucket of cold water thrown in her face, waking her from a terrible nightmare. Not him, not him, not now-- not when she was-- she was-- Darcy looked down at her palms, rows of crescent half moon scars looking at up her with lurid smiles where she had dug her fingernails into tender flesh.  
  
He couldn’t see her like this. Not like _this_.  
  
“Go away,” Darcy shouted, her voice shrill and reedy with panic. “F-- fuck off.”  
  
“...Darcy...?”  
  
She whimpered and staggered away from the kitchen table and towards somewhere-- anywhere-- anywhere but here-- _away_ \-- Darcy faltered and her foot caught on something and she stumbled, arms flailing for support. She hit something warm and soft and a careful arm caught her round the waist, strong and steady.  
  
Darcy closed her eyes and turned away, bile rising in her throat-- she couldn’t bear to look up, at his face, filled with pity.  
  
“Darcy,” he said gently and lowered them both to the ground, half-cradling her in his lap as he sat on the dirty linoleum floor. “Darcy Joanne Lewis.”  
  
A sob rose in her throat and she couldn’t keep it down, couldn’t stop the wretched pain in her heart, couldn’t make it go _away_.  
  
“Shhh, shh,” he crooned and stroked her hair with a light touch, as if he were afraid she might disappear at any moment. “It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s going to be alright, I’ll fix it for you, just tell me where it hurts. I can make you better.”  
  
Darcy drew in a ragged breath and unconsciously turned towards the warmth, unable to help herself. She buried her face into his chest, breathing in the smell of old ink and paper and the sterilizing ethanol he used to wipe down tables in the lab, the comforting smell of Bruce Banner.  
  
“Hurts-- hurts so much,” she gasped, chest heaving, clutching at his shirt as if it was the only thing that kept her alive. “It hurts so much and I don’t know what to _do_ ,” she said and started to cry.  
  
“I can fix that,” Bruce whispered into the dark mass of her hair, holding her tight. “I can fix that for you, for you...”  


* * *

Darcy woke up feeling like she had been run over by an overenthusiastic Thor, hauled about like a sack of potatoes and then shoved into a food processor. She opened her mouth and winced as she licked her dry and cracked lips; god, it felt like something had gone and died, laying down a lovely grave on her tongue.  
  
“Motherfuck,” she croaked and crawled out of bed, shakily setting aside the comforter and staggering to her feet, leaning on the headboard for support. “Pee, then water,” she decided eloquently and staggered out the room, her head pointedly reminding her that she and the sunlight were decidedly not good friends.  
  
Down the hallway and past the living room, where Bruce was sitting and reading the paper and into the--  
  
Darcy stopped and blinked a couple of times. He was still there, the paper rustling as he flipped through the International section.  
  
“Oh,” Darcy said faintly as her memories of last night rammed into her brain with the sudden force of a semi careening down a highway on its side. “ _Oh_ ,” she said again, turned on her heel and tried to flee back to the safety of her room.  
  
“You’re up!” Bruce said, all too brightly for a man who had just-- Darcy refused to think about last night and firmly put a stop to that train of thought.  
  
“Funny to see you here,” Darcy said and turned around, trying to plaster a cheerful smile onto her face. “Normally, when I see my friends in my apartment, I usually remember inviting them in and-- and that sort of thing.”  
  
Bruce folded his paper and set it aside, looking up at her with quiet eyes. “I thought it was-- the circumstances of the situation last night...I thought it’d best if I came in to check up on you.”  
  
He knew that she knew, she realized with a sinking heart. That she remembered. “Well, thanks anyway, but it looks like everything’s alright, no need to worry at all,” Darcy said, hand twisting in the folds of her tattered blue dress. “I’m as right as rain.”  
  
“Darcy--”  
  
“I think I need to go lie down now,” she said, her voice brittle. “Excuse me.”  
  
This time, she did flee, her clumsy feet making the ten feet seem like ten miles. Darcy twisted the cool doorknob and flung her door open, desperation lending her limbs a sudden urgency. The door slammed as she leaned against it, her weight a heavy counterbalance. The frantic energy left her as quickly as it had come and Darcy sank to the floor on trembling legs, curled up, knees clutched to her chest, back leaning on the door.  
  
“Oh _god_ ,” she moaned and buried her head into her arms, hot tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Of all the people who had to stop by last night it had to be _him_ \-- Bruce fucking Banner. Her boss’s boss, one of the fucking Avengers, a giant fucking monster green dude who regularly saved the day and-- and--  
  
A man she respected. A man whose opinion had come to matter so much in the past few months, a man who’d let her cry into his shoulder when the Mets lost yet another game, who’d given her book recommendations and patiently drank imaginary tea with little Janie. A man, she might, just a little, just maybe even--  
  
“Darcy?”  
  
She scowled. “Get out,” she muttered into the crook of her arm, her throat thick with tears.  
  
“Not until I know you’re okay,” he said, unforgivably sounding like a decent human being who cared about awful people like her.  
  
“I’m okay,” she said.  
  
“Right,” he said and she could almost see the twist of his mouth, the way his eyes lit up when she said something funny. “I can see that, from the way you were smashing glass last night and screaming bloody murder at the wall.”  
  
A disgustingly smart and perceptive man. She stayed silent, clamping her mouth shut, refusing to dignify him with an answer. Darcy heard a soft sigh and a bone pop, a hand scraping on cheap plywood.  
  
“What happened?” he asked, sounding much closer and lower-- he had sat down as well and Darcy half suspected that they were now sitting back to back, separated only by a thin slab of fake wood.  
  
“Nothing,” Darcy said, her voice low and husky.  
  
“Bullshit,” Bruce said dismissively. “Something happened for you to-- to drink like that.”  
  
“Hm,” Darcy grunted, noncommittally.  
  
There was a long silence and Darcy had nearly fallen back asleep before Bruce spoke up again. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink before.”  
  
“What?” Darcy asked groggily and stared at her bed enviously, which promised a much more comfortable nap than the plain old floor. “You’ve never seen me what?  
  
“Drink-- drink alcohol,” Bruce clarified, his voice quiet.  
  
“Oh.” Darcy swallowed, but the large lump in her throat made it difficult. “I--” she cleared her throat. “I’m not exactly a nice drunk,” she said tiredly. “I get mean and nasty and I don’t usually like the person I am when I drink.”  
  
“I can relate,” Bruce said in a funny sort of voice and Darcy half-thought _Do you?_ before she realized that the man she was sitting with occasionally turned into an angry green monster capable of smashing cities into rubble.  
  
“I guess you do,” she mused. “It’s nasty, isn’t it? Knowing that lurking inside of you, there’s an awful person who-- who likes screaming and shouting and being an awful person and she’s just waiting there. Waiting for the times I slip and need a drink and out she comes, smashing all my favorite shot glasses and turning me into a wreck.” She looked down at her hands, the scars mostly healed over, with only faint red lines reminding her of last night’s clenched anger.  
  
“It doesn’t make you a bad person,” he said.  
  
“Well,” Darcy said bitterly and turned her hands over, palms down so she didn’t have to look at them. “Some of us don’t exactly save the world with our angry alter-egos. Some of us are just bad and angry and selfish.”  
  
“What happened?” Bruce asked and she desperately hoped she wasn’t reading too hard into his voice, wasn’t clutching at straws, at some faint, imagined concern. But she told him anyway, because there was no one else.  
  
“My Dad’s dying,” she said and curled up tighter into a ball. “Cancer,” she said dully. “Stage four pancreatic and not a word til yesterday night.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Bruce said and she leaned back into the door, as if she were leaning against his shoulder.  
  
“Me too,” she said. “Me too.”  
  
They sat in a companionable silence for a long time, long enough that her foot fell asleep and she was close to drifting off as well, sleep becking with beguiling fingers.  
  
“Thank you,” Bruce said suddenly.  
  
“You’re welcome,” Darcy muttered in reflex. “C’n I go back t’ sleep now?”  
  
“Only if you drink some water before you go back to bed,” Bruce replied instantly. “It’ll help with the headache.”  
  
“Okay,” Darcy yawned and stood up awkwardly, her suddenly woken foot refusing to bear much weight. She opened the door and blinked up at Bruce’s face, feeling much more awake as he scrutinized her face carefully. A blush began to creep up her cheeks and Darcy automatically scowled to hide the flush.  
  
“Water?” she growled, embarrassment making her irritable. Fucking Bruce Banner and his stupid lovely brown eyes.  
  
“Of course,” he smiled and extended an arm at her, which she grudgingly accepted. They walked down the corridor, which was slightly too narrow for two people to walk hand in hand, so Darcy trailed after him, a half step behind. His arm was steady and strong and she leaned on him more than she’d liked to admit, her feet still clumsy and her head determined to spin in circles.  
  
Bruce picked up a cup from the counter and inspected it with a keen eye before filling it up at the tap. “Here,” he said, and placed it gently in her hand, their fingers grazing slightly. She shuddered and gripped the cold mug tightly, raising it to her lips. “Cheers,” she said a little too brightly and knocked it down.  
  
“Cheers,” Bruce echoed and gave her a faint smile. 

* * *

“I think that drink’s older than I am,” Darcy said from the doorway, a dark shadow edged with golden light from the hallway.  
  
Tony pulled out another glass and poured a fingers’ worth before turning it around and offering it to her with a mocking bow. “For you, Madame?” he purred, drink loosening his tongue and gilding his words with bitterness.  
  
“I don’t drink,” Darcy said and swept from the doorway with a brittle sort of grace, all angles and shadows and bruises. She settled down on the barstool next to him, bare feet swinging in the air as they peeked from underneath the cuffs of pajama pants that belonged to a man twice her size.  
  
“Don’t drink?” Tony sneered and tossed the drink down-- he saw no need it wasting it on the unappreciative. “It’s a ‘64 Scapa, young lady, far above your mediocre tastes.”  
  
“Don’t patronize me,” Darcy said sharply and the bit her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.“I--”  
  
Tony snorted and slammed the drink down, lacing his fingers together in a pale imitation of a prayer. “Well, who else are you going to accuse me of murdering-- no sorry, killing, next? The President? Nick Fury? Maria? Happ--”  
  
“I came down here to apologize,” Darcy said and sighed, sounding more like a tired old lady than a woman in her late twenties.  
  
“Apologize? For _what_?” Tony said, dragging out the last word with a distasteful smirk. “For falsely accusing me of killing your beloved boyfriend and-- and--” He stopped when Darcy looked up at him, her dark eyes gleaming with tears.  
  
‘“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry because I forgot that I’m not the only one hurting too.” Darcy reached up with a hesitant hand and brushed Tony’s cheek with a light finger, more air than substance. He was frozen, caught in the spell of her eyes and the tremble in her arm.  
  
“You love him too,” she said quietly. “And I forgot. I’m sorry, Tony,” she said simply. Tony shuddered and bowed his head and the rich taste of whisky soured in the back of his mouth.  
  
“He was there, you know. Just standing, he wasn’t even-- even all green or angry. Just standing, his back to Doom and I...I just stood there.” Tony closed his eyes and drew in a harsh breath. “He was _right_ there one minute and then just-- gone.”  
  
“Gone,” Darcy said hollowly and her hand settled on his shoulder. “Just like that?” she asked faintly, her voice no more than a slight rustle in the air.  
  
“Just like that,” Tony said.  
  
“Gone,” Darcy repeated and pulled back, wrapping her arms around herself, as if warding off a chill. “You know,” she said distantly, looking at the rows of gleaming glass bottles lining the back of the bar. “I can’t remember what it’s like not to be with Bruce. It’s only been a year and a half since we met, but no matter how I try, life before him, it’s just too hard to think of him not there. I used to stay up late some nights, while he was off saving world again and wonder--” Her voice caught but she soldiered on with a faltering voice. “--wonder what it would be like if he never came home. Sometimes I would dream about it...nightmares....but this...this...” Darcy closed her eyes. “...this is worse than any nightmare. I can’t wake up.”  
  
Tony swallowed and he gripped the glass tumblers in front of him for lack of anything to do-- should he touch her? Say something? He knew how to make machines and robots and guns that could kill and maim and save the world but here, here in this moment, in this bar, sitting next a broken young woman, he was useless. He didn’t like the feeling much. They sat there, brooding in silence, as dawn’s first light began filtering through the windows.  
  
Darcy stirred first. “You should go to bed,” she said hoarsely. “And quit drinking, that whisky’s worth my weight in gold.”  
  
“You don’t exactly weigh much,” he jabbed back weakly.  
  
Darcy’s voice softened. “At least try.”  
  
He pressed his lips together and gave her a curt, jerky sort of nod. She sighed and slipped off the stool, landing with a slight thump. “Good night,” she said quietly and padded away. He stayed up a little while longer and watched the sun rise with the bitter taste of whiskey in his mouth.  
 **  
**


End file.
